Starlight
by eksley05
Summary: On his nineteenth birthday, Kenny McCormick is given a life-changing gift. How he uses it is up to him. Various pairings TBD, though I can definitely promise Craig/Tweek if nothing else.


**A/N:** And I come back with a vengeance, apparently. I'm not quite sure where exactly this story is going to go just yet, but I hope you'll consider joining me on this adventure. As always, I own nothing mentioned here and would never claim to.

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The room is dark, darker than it should be, considering there are no curtains on the windows, but the night sky is covered with a heavy layer of clouds. The only light is coming from an old digital alarm clock that has definitely seen better days sitting on a nightstand. The blue numbers display 2:08 AM, the last digit fading in and out; although the batteries have been recently replaced, this clock is clearly nearing the end of its lifespan. The same could be said for most of the other things in the room - the nightstand is missing a leg; one of the dresser's drawers is missing; and what passes for a bed is simply an old mattress pushed up against a wall, threadbare with springs poking out, and completely devoid of sheets. A single old pillow rests in a corner where the mattress meets the wall, providing some relatively comfortable support for the teenager leaning against it, not that he is thinking much about comfort at the moment. His eyes are on the clock.

In his left hand he holds a standard-sized invitation, the words printed on the thick black cardstock impossible to read in the darkness, but he knows them by heart, by now. He's had the invitation for the better part of a month and if he closes his eyes he can perfectly recreate the shiny silver lettering in his mind. He stretches his legs, clad in ripped jeans frayed at the bottom, out in front of him and drops the invitation beside him on the mattress, yawning widely at the same time. Being invited to an event in the middle of the night was not a normal occurrence, not even in this town. Being invited to this specific event was even more odd. He's never received this particular kind of invitation before, and it intrigues him. The only thing about it that he doesn't like is what it's going to take to get there.

The clock's last digit changes to a 9 as a car drives by outside. The bright headlights wash over the walls of the small bedroom, just for a second illuminating the gun held loosely in his right hand. He's got three minutes, and while he knows he would be more than welcome to show up early, all things considered, he chooses to wait. He glances down at the gun, and a shadow crosses his face, darkening his green (but with just a hint of blue) eyes for a moment. It definitely won't be the first time he's done it, but he knows how it's going to feel for those few seconds and it is _not_ something he would prefer to relive. He's endured a lot of things over the years, and he feels he can confidently say that he would much rather hop headfirst into a meat grinder than take another gunshot to the face.

And yet, when the clock hits 2:12, signalling the nineteenth anniversary of the day he was born, what feels like a million lifetimes ago, Kenny McCormick raises his arm and shoots himself between the eyes. The sound of the shot echoes through his bedroom as his lifeless - for now, anyway - body slumps over onto the mattress, blood now coating the wall behind where he once sat. Down the hall, his siblings and parents barely even stir.

The pain that comes with a death like this never lasts very long for Kenny, but it is absolute hell while it does. His head feels like it's simultaneously on fire, being bludgeoned with a crowbar, and having knives shoved into it through his eyeballs. He can barely register the familiar feeling of weightlessness as he travels through the emptiness of Limbo; with other deaths, he can see all of the other recently deceased as they make their journeys to their destinations - he can have conversations with them, even. With a suicide by gunshot? He can't even open his eyes to see that he's reached the Gatekeeper. He just feels a rough hand grab one of his own, feels the sensation of a stamp pressing into his skin, and then he falls.

Halfway through the fall, the pain in Kenny's head eases and he's able to maneuver his body in midair so that he can land on his feet, though he does stumble forward a little bit on the rocky terrain, wincing a little as he's reminded that he isn't wearing socks, or shoes. He frowns, mentally awarding himself only an 8 for the landing; he's done better. He yawns again, and looks around to get his bearings. The annoying thing about Hell is that literally everything looks the same, it's all black asphalt and red sky, jagged rocks everywhere and the constant sound of whatever horrible music Satan has decided to inflict on the residents that day.

Today's torture appears to be an old New Kids On The Block song looped on repeat, and Kenny smiles a little bit as he makes his way to the house just up ahead on the right. He pulls the door open, not bothering to knock, and calls out, "Nice music!"

Satan, in all of his twelve-foot-tall, Hulk-esque glory, pops out of the kitchen doorway directly across from the front door. He has bright pink oven mitts on and he's wearing a cupcake apron that is clearly two sizes too small, but Kenny forgives that because one, he knows that it's impossible for Satan to find proper-fitting clothing of any kind given his size; and two, it's one of the funniest things he's ever seen.

"Kenny!" Satan exclaims, rushing over to the entryway and enveloping Kenny in a hug. Kenny squirms, mostly for show but partly because Satan has never been good at holding back his strength for hugs and he can't quite breathe. "Happy birthday!" The Prince of Darkness relinquishes his hold on the skinny blond teenager and fusses with his apron.

"Thanks," Kenny answers with a grin, shaking his hair out of his face. Some people would tell him he could use a haircut, but he liked the length of it. "So I heard there was a party?" He thinks back to the invitation lying abandoned in his bedroom up on Earth - the invitation to a birthday party, for him, to be held in Satan's living room at precisely 2:12 AM on March 22nd. He wants to ask why now, why this year, is Satan throwing him a birthday party, but holds back. Patience is not something Kenny is known for, but what he does have is some absolutely amazing intuition; he knows that there must be something big going on, and that he'll be leaving this house with answers, so he waits.

Satan claps his oven mitts together and leads Kenny to the living room, which is filled with people and has definitely expanded in size since the last time Kenny was here. Damien is sitting in a corner with Pip, glaring daggers at everybody from underneath his black bangs, and Kenny resists the urge to let him know that he looks an awful lot like Skrillex, because he doesn't feel like being lit on fire at his own party. He does smile at Pip, however, who gives him a nervous little wave in return.

He wonders why Damien is even here at all, and not off somewhere else with Pip doing whatever it is they do every day, given how much the Son of Satan despises him. Kenny was already sure that there is a bigger meaning behind this party, and Damien's presence only serves to further cement that certainty.

"Everyone." Satan's voice booms throughout the room. The music stops, conversations cease and all heads turn in his and Kenny's direction. Kenny spots Jesus across the room and raises his eyebrows slightly in confusion. "Our guest of honor." Satan gestures to Kenny with a flourish, who steps forward and bows a little bit, both to avoid getting knocked over by Satan's flailing limb and to take full advantage of all the attention he is getting.

As Satan retreats back to the kitchen, Kenny mingles with the crowd of people, talking and laughing and basically having the time of his life (well, death, to be painfully accurate). There are trays of food floating around - literally, floating through the air - and he makes sure to eat at least four of everything, savouring every bite as he does so. He doesn't quite know what it is about the food in Hell that makes it taste a thousand times better than back home, but everything he's ever eaten down here is the most delicious thing he's ever had in his mouth.

Well. Food-related thing, anyway.

Kenny is in the middle of a conversation with Billy Mays and Alan Rickman when Satan returns to the living room, a huge cake held above his head. Kenny spies the cake and his eyes brighten as he bounds over to where Satan is placing the dessert down onto a long rectangular table that has just popped into existence. _Happy Birthday, Kenny! _is spelled out in bright orange frosting, and there are nineteen unlit candles surrounding the words. A fireball zooms past Kenny's face, nearly singeing his hair as it goes, and the blond turns to see Damien, one arm outstretched, smirking at him. Rolling his eyes, Kenny just laughs and turns back to the cake, candles now ablaze, the tiny flames mesmerizing as they flicker. He gets lost staring into the fire for a minute, and when he looks up again he sees that all of the guests have formed a circle around him and the cake.

All of the guests except Satan and Jesus, that is. Both of them are standing in front of him. Satan is smiling, but Jesus looks more somber, which makes Kenny a little bit nervous and he is reminded again that there is definitely something weird going on. He takes a deep breath and blows at the candles, managing to extinguish all but two; those he catches with a second try. As he watches, the cake cuts itself and pieces start floating towards the crowd, all of whom, Kenny notices, are holding paper plates and forks, ready for their piece of birthday cake to arrive.

"So what's up?" he says, his eyes moving back and forth between Satan and Jesus, unable to wait any longer. "I mean, thanks for the party and the cake and everything, but you guys have never thrown me a party before and I've been seeing you guys regularly for what, the last ten years?" It might even be longer, but he knows it's been at least a decade since his resurrections began, so that's the number he goes with.

Satan and Jesus exchange glances, and Kenny shifts his weight nervously. Jesus clears his throat. Satan casts a look around the room and all of a sudden Damien joins the three of them, tugging Pip along behind him and still looking furious. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Infidel," and a string of obscenities, which causes Jesus to frown in his direction.

It's Satan who speaks first, looking far happier than Jesus and Damien combined. "We have a gift for you," he informs Kenny, who perks up. That isn't what he had been expecting.

"What kind of gift?" he asks excitedly, imagining something awesome and badass like a scythe or something. Everyone knows that Hell-crafted weapons are the best.

In response, Satan claps his hands together once and nods at his son and Jesus. The Unlikely Trinity hold out their right hands, palms facing up, and after a few seconds a small box shimmers into existence, falling onto Jesus's hand. Immediately after, Damien snaps his fingers and he and Pip disappear with a _pop_.

Kenny eyes the box. It's about as big as a tissue box, made out of some type of dark wood with a hinged lid. And it's glowing, with a soft golden light. It definitely does not look like Hell craftsmanship, and Kenny is a little bit disappointed, but not much - it's still a gift, after all, and Kenny is a lot of things, but nobody could ever say he is an ungrateful person. He holds out his hand to take the box, but Jesus moves it just out of his reach and speaks for the first time.

"Kenny," he says, his voice as solemn as his expression. "This gift is not to be taken lightly. There was a great deal of discussion before we decided you were deserving of what lies within this box. You must use it wisely, because we will not be able to gift it again. Do you understand?"

Kenny pauses before answering. What could be in that box that warranted this much seriousness? He nods, and Satan plucks the box from Jesus's hand, passing it to Kenny as Jesus shoots him a dirty look.

The blond opens the box, and blinks as the glow gets exponentially brighter. Inside are eight crystal stars, each one emitting the same kind of light as the box itself. They are all nestled together on a bed of dark blue fabric. He looks up at his two gifters quizzically. "Sparkly. What do they do?"

"Each one of those stars," says Jesus. "will grant a resurrection."

Kenny freezes, his eyes remaining on the stars inside the box. Jesus continues speaking, and it takes a second before the teenager really registers the words.

"It has always been a mystery, even to us, why you possess the gift of resurrection," the son of God says. "But we have watched you over the years, and we have noticed that you handle it exceptionally. Better than others would, in your position, I'd imagine. A power like that has great potential to cause unbearable loneliness."

Kenny only nods, slowly, recalling a great many instances where his dying and coming back to life had made him feel just like that. After all, it's almost impossible to explain the concept that an ability so many people would kill for is more of a burden than anything else.

Satan jumps in before Kenny can form any words to respond. "From this point forward, you'll have the power to bring anyone back from the dead, no matter how they've died. You can use it on the same person more than once, but you can only use each star one time."

His vision blurs, and Kenny realizes that he's got tears dripping down his face. He has no idea what to say, but somehow manages to choke out a, "Thank you," though that seems like the most insufficient response he could possibly have said. This is the greatest gift he has ever been given, and he cannot understand why it's been deemed that he is at all worthy of such a thing. He is just plain old wrong-side-of-the tracks Kenny McCormick who has never done a thing right in his whole life. He closes the box, holding it with his left hand while wiping his eyes with the hem of his orange T-shirt with his right. "Seriously, thank you," he repeats, trying to find better words. "You guys are the fucking best."

Jesus flinches at the curse word, but Satan beams. "You're most welcome," he says, as the watch on his wrist beeps the Kim Possible communicator sound, and Kenny knows what that means. A slice of cake on a plate floats in front of Kenny's face and he grabs it while he can. It would be terrible if he came all this way for a birthday party and didn't even get any cake.

"See you next time," he says around a mouthful of chocolate frosting. He would have saluted them both if he'd had a free hand. The world around him fades slowly to white, and then with a blink, he's back in his bedroom, sitting against his wall which is completely free of any evidence of the gunshot. He is pleased to discover that his cake survived the trip back with him, and proceeds to devour it hungrily as his precious box full of stars glows brightly on the mattress beside him.

The clock on his nightstand displays 2:13 AM.


End file.
